The History of Alice
by Hypnotized.By.Golden.Eyes
Summary: Mary Alice Brandon - or Alice, as she was commonly known - had the gift of foresight. Except it wasn't a gift at all. (Or, a deeper look into Alice's tragic history, starting from her 18th birthday and ending with her transformation a year and half later.)
1. Chapter 1

**Hiiii. I warn you this is probably full of historical inaccuracies. Google only helps so much, so I apologize in advance. Otherwise, I hope you'll enjoy and review. This took me a long time to finish (there will be maybe five chapters, because it ended up being a pretty long one-shot). And yes I did consult _The Twilight Saga: The Official Illustrated Guid_e while writing this story. :)**

* * *

The History of Alice

* * *

_.:November 1919:._

_Mother braids my hair in the morning, pinning it with her gentle fingers and tying it with worn cotton bows. She dresses me up in a cute white dress and stockings that itch at the seams. The neighbors are always kind to me, and one even hands me small little candies every day. So when we go into town, Mother and I, I don't understand the way people look at me. They look so angry with faces twisted into such dark expressions. Sometimes the children there hide behind their mother's skirts or point and stare and call me insulting names. I don't understand. Why are they afraid of me? Why do they hate me? Have I done something wrong?_

_It all changed so rapidly and even now, years later, I wonder why it mattered at all. All I ever tried to do was help people. My entire life revolved around other people's problems and I tried – oh I tried! – to save them. Maybe if I didn't, I would not be where I am right now, sprinting in the chilling darkness, with no coat, no shoes._

_It is in vain that my feet keep moving, till my lungs burn when I exhale and my legs ache with exhaustion and my pounding heart beats twice for every step I take, which is too fast. I hurt, but I don't stop running._

_The vision came too late. If it hadn't, perhaps I could make it in time. Maybe I could have the chance to save her. But I know I don't, and I feel at fault, though rationally it has nothing to do with me – or maybe it does. I have no clue anymore. All I know for certain is that I am too late to stop the event from happening; too late to warn anyone about it; too late to realize what this might mean for my future. I am simply too late._

_Yet, I run as if the nightmare is only just beginning._

* * *

.:January 1919:.

"Happy birthday!"

Mother sings this while entering the room with a beautiful Lady Baltimore cake in her hands - the grandest, most delicious dessert I have ever had the pleasure of tasting. She sets it on the table in front of me as a chorus of 'Happy Birthday' rises from around the dining table. The room is warm from the heat of the over-used stove and smells of butter, sugar, and the sweet, fruity odor familiar to me - Mother's Citrus Orchard; our backyard.

The swirled frosting, rim of crushed walnuts training the edges, and dab of whipped cream in the center of eighteen glowing candles certainly adds to the beauty of the cake - and my craving for it. No wonder Mother spent nearly the entire day in the kitchen; working by herself - as she insisted upon - she must have jumped through hoops to round up the ingredients for this cake, let alone to bake it and decorate it on her own. I feel a rush of admiration and am grateful that she went through that burden simply because it is my birthday today, even if she did not have to. But of course she would. Mother loves to indulge me and Cynthia in "unnecessary luxuries" - words Father would use - because we are her daughters, the most precious people in her world.

Though I will say that added with the pristinely decorated house, Mother went overboard, as usual. I smile, knowing that I sometimes complain to her about it, but deep down admire her constant enthusiasm for life. I only wish I can be as surprised about this gift as she means for me to be.

But I knew about it the moment she decided.

The singing is finished. Cynthia hops up and down in her seat, which rocks back and forth due to the chip in one of its legs; Mother would normally chastise her about proper behavior for a young lady and lecture about pristine patience. I somehow know my seven year-old sister is waiting for this also, but Mother does not seem to notice, or care. All attention is on me; or rather, the Lady Baltimore cake. I close my eyes and make my birthday wish; I've had it planned since yesterday, and have been anxious to cast it. When my eyes open, I blow out the candles and everyone claps.

The cake tastes even better than I imagined it would. Mother is delighted by this and insists everyone have a second slice; there are no protests. I don't know what amazes me more: Mother's elaborate preparations for today, or Aunt Louisa stealing the recipe for the cake and claiming it as her own in a month's time. She'll get away with it, too; Mother won't care, and I don't dare mention anything for fear they will inquire as to how I know.

Knowing things I should not be aware of is unacceptable. Even if it is natural for me, I will certainly get in trouble if I ever speak to anyone about the things I see; the pictures in my head; the visions. I try not to think about them when they come; instead, I look around the room at the people I am most thankful to have in my life, here on my birthday (some only here in spirit), and I think for all the hidden troubles I have in my life at least I have people who care about me.

There are my friends: Lottie, Edmund, and Mary Beth, who has been my friend the longest. Luther Hayes came late, but he is here; red-cheeked and excited, I invited him yesterday morning, even if I was not supposed to know about the little celebration until the next day. Virginia Robinson and Lucy White appeared unexpected, but as charming as ever, if only to edge their way into my family's home. By the fluttering eyelashes sweeping in Luther Hayes' direction, it may be safe to assume the reason for their sudden friendliness toward me.

A postcard arrived two days ago from Uncle John. He lives up North, and doesn't always get along well with Mother ever since his choice to move, abandoning their father's business in the process. My grandfather's business, as I recall, took a turn for the worst when Uncle John left, and is often the explanation given about my grandfather's suicide… The subject is taboo, but the reality of it has left a rift between Mother and her brother, and had left my grandma alone. Luckily Grandma was a strong woman. I loved her - still do, even though she's passed on. I remember knowing about it before I was told. I cried and cried all through the night. When morning came, Mother and Father discovered the news and I cried some more. It had been heartbreaking.

In any case, Uncle John does not visit often. But I do appreciate my other family members who came.

Aunt Louisa, Stella, Scarlett and Ruth, and the dog Stella spoils, who I count as another cousin because he is too adorable not to add. Phillip is here, too, even if he has to take hours off work. I like Phillip. Out of all my cousins he is the one who acknowledged me pleasantly in public back when the stories began to spread about me and my visions. He said once that he sees me as another little sister. He spent weeks saving up for his gift to me. I am happy that I ended up genuinely surprised by it, that nothing was unintentionally given away by my premonitions. I do not choose what I see, or what I do not, so I'm glad that, for whatever reason, I missed this particular present: an expensive, solid gold locket, molded into the shape of a heart. It is beautiful, and I hug Phillip with all the strength I can muster until he complains he can't breathe, but he laughs.

I don't guess any of the other presents I get today, either. I try not to, yes, but at the same time I don't see much ahead of time these days. When I was younger, as early as four years – maybe even earlier, though I can't remember – my premonitions came frequently. It wasn't until much later that I started to reign them in, control them. And it wasn't until just recently that I decided to ignore them as best as I am capable. It isn't very easy sometimes, but I am determined to never make it obvious that I know something I should not have the power to know.

The party continues fabulously, with loud stories and humorous banter followed by raucous laughter, and Luther Hayes' thighs pressed against mine as we sit side-by-side on the sofa. By the time the last person leaves and I am helping Mother and Cynthia clean up, I am brimming with so much warmth and happiness that I can barely contain it. I sing and skip as I sweep, while Cynthia giggles in the background and Mother smiles fondly.

It doesn't even upset me anymore that Father could not make it home in time for my birthday.

My father is a jeweler and a pearl trader. He buys the pearls from local divers and then moves the pearls inland to be sold in more profitable markets away from the coast. His job keeps him away from the family for days at a time, and this year he happened to miss my birthday.

He makes up for it when he returns two days later by bringing me home a pearl bracelet. It glitters in the sunlight as he places it on my wrist. He kisses my cheek and wishes me, "Happy 18th Birthday, sweetie."

And when Luther Hayes' stops me in the market the next day and tells me he had a nice time at my party and hopes he'll see me around more, I think this is the year – this is the year my life becomes something greater.

OoOoOoO

I have never been popular. With my past problems regarding my accurate intuition, ignoring and avoiding Alice Brandon had become a hobby of sorts, when they weren't pointing fingers and whispering rumors.

Rumors began affecting my life at five-years-old. Nothing extreme, but enough to thwart any hopes I had of making long-lasting friends, of being invited to parties. I've always been a very social creature, and I didn't like being lonely. So by the age of ten, I began to stay quiet about my premonitions. No one ever seemed comfortable when I shared them, and if they turned out being wrong I felt embarrassed. Now, I think, those times when I had gotten something wrong were the ones that saved me; people could laugh off my accurate predictions as lucky guesses when they realized that, no, I didn't know everything, that I wasn't…psychic or something abnormal or dark. I was just abnormally lucky, was all.

I am not lucky. But I pretended to be.

Friends still didn't come easy. Mary Beth has been my best friend since we were children. She and her friends are the only people who talk with me for a longer period of time than just a second to say a passing 'hello'. I always felt frustrated by that, but I never stopped smiling in hopes that one day people would see how friendly I was. Aside from a few exceptions, the people in this town were always polite to me. The numbers increased the longer I went without mentioning the future. Eventually, people started smiling more genuinely around me. They probably think I was helped in some way or it was just a phase or even that they had simply misjudged what I'm capable of and I'm really not that threatening. Whatever the reason, this past year has been the best in that regard; memories are waning, and I am actually beginning to feel normal.

If normal is the same as right, I don't know.

If acceptance is the focus of a happy life, then maybe.

And if Luther Hayes is anything to go by, well, then I'm okay with being normal.

OoOoOoO

Luther Hayes has these eyes that are icy blue and hypnotic, turning my knees weak with every glance. He has this hair that is dark chestnut and soft, and when he sweeps his fingers through his feathery bangs I swoon. He's all quick wit and cute smiles, with broad shoulders connected to firm muscles. The way he dresses is fit and handsome and more expensive in taste than anyone else in this little Mississippian town – something I've always admired. He's well-known, well-liked, and confident in himself. He likes who he is, and so do I. So does everyone, I think, for many girls have a crush on him, including Virginia Robinson and Lucy White, who sometimes go out of their way to sneer at me, even after coming to my birthday party. I can't help but smile when thinking about his popularity, because there are girls as lovely to look at as golden-haired, green-eyed Virginia Robinson, yet right now Luther Hayes is sitting in a tree in my mother's orchard next to _me_.

Maybe I am lucky, after all.

"So…" Luther picks an orange from its branch – the only fruit ripe this time of year – fiddles with it, then tosses it in the basket. I don't tell him it's not precisely the right color yet to be picked. "I'm headed up north once school ends here. Been accepted into a university in New York."

"New York! There are supposed to be great shops there."

He laughs at my enthusiasm, and also my priorities. "I don't care about the shopping, Alice," he says.

"Oh, right. College. How excited you must be to go back to where you were born?"

One of the great things about Luther: he didn't know me _before_. He moved to Biloxi not even two years ago. By then, the witch rumors had died down, nearly forgotten entirely. I didn't have to try extra hard to gain his attention, to disprove things he might have heard. To him, I'd always been an ordinary girl. It's something I appreciate every day, and today especially.

"Living in New York was wonderful, Alice. The houses, the food, the people – everything about the city!" Staring at the sky, he sighs wistfully. I can tell he misses his old home, loved it very much, speaks of it passionately. It must have made him sad to have to leave it when his parents died. If I had been there to save his parents, to have maybe seen ahead of time— No. I don't even want to think it. I remind myself I'm grateful he doesn't know anything about what I sometimes do.

"Returning will be strange at first," Luther continues, "but worth it. School there will be nice."

"As will the pretty girls, I imagine."

Taking his eyes away from the sky, he focuses on me and smiles, not missing a beat. "There are pretty girls here, too."

Heat fills my face; so does a smile.

"Maybe…" Luther clears his throat, eyes focusing back on the sky, blue on blue. He seems nervous now, a tint of pink on his cheeks. "Maybe you'll come visit me. Take the train or a cab. I'd pay your fare for you, to have you come."

I didn't think it could happen, but my smile widens, grows almost too big for my face and my cheekbones begin to ache.

When I don't say anything right away, too happy to form words that will make sense, Luther says hurriedly, "We can go visit those shops that you get elated about. Maybe go see a play or two. You do like plays, don't you? Most girls like plays…"

I can't help the giggle that escapes me, which causes the red in Luther's face to deepen.

"I am very much a girl, Luther," I say, hoping my tone is playful enough that it disguises my giddiness while easing his nerves at the same time. It seems to work. He visibly relaxes and his smile comes out easier.

"Well," he chuckles, "most girls wouldn't climb a tree, yet here you are."

"Here I am."

His eyes sparkle, and I figure mine must be also. And if he's looking at me like I'm looking at him, perhaps he feels it too. Perhaps he feels this strange, warm sensation that blankets me blanketing him. It lights my body on fire and ignites something fuzzy in my stomach and I feel like if I wasn't surrounded by tree limbs I'd be floating away with the clouds. I don't know how something can be odd and new yet feel safe and perfect at the same time, but that's how it is, right now, staring into Luther Hayes.

It takes several moments of silence – both of us lost in our own jumble of fantastical thoughts –before Luther finally blinks back up at the darkening sky and says he should probably get back home before his mother puts dinner on the table. I want to be sorry that my time with him is coming to a close, but I am overflowing with joy. If I open my mouth at all, I am sure I will only be capable of squealing, which I am most certain is not proper behavior. I only risk nodding at him.

Before dropping back to the ground, he leans in and kisses my cheek. He smells wonderful, better than the orchard's mixture of blossoms and fruit. He tells me he'll see me again, jumps down, and waves up at me with a grin that melts my heart before heading off. The spot on my cheek where his lips touched my skin burns something wonderful.

I lean back and hold an orange to my chest, over my heart, and pretend it is the embodiment of my feelings for Luther Hayes. For the first time, I feel that everything I want is in my reach. I can have Luther Hayes and I can escape this town that knows too much and too little about me and I can have extravagant shopping adventures in New York, of all places, and buy gorgeous gowns I can presently only dream of owning. Who knows where the future may go afterward? The world doesn't always have to be predictable. And if not having premonitions gives me what I wish, then I'm better off suppressing them.

I lay up in the nest of citrus-scented branches with my dreams and my smile and my orange, until the sun sets beyond the horizon.

OoOoOoO

As it turns out, suppressing any visions or feelings I have is hard. A lot harder than I would have liked to believe.

It's just… if I see something happen and I can (try to) stop it, shouldn't I? Is it my responsibility? Am I morally obligated to help? I don't know the answers to those questions and getting them wrong scares me. All I know for certain is that if I didn't help I would feel awful. And so I can't help it when I "accidentally" bump people in the market and they miss the car that would have hit them around the next corner. And I'm not sorry when I make up stories just to chat peoples' ears off to spare them a few extra minutes that, if they were on time, would have gotten them mugged. I figure as long as I'm not being obvious about what I'm doing, as long as I'm not directly telling them what I see will happen, then it's alright. Ignorance is bliss (and knowing what I know, I truly believe that).

But I _am_ content this way. Helping people isn't a bad thing. If I must hide it, I will; but I am not pretending I am ashamed for what I do behind their backs.

Things get complicated, however, at Mary Beth's wedding shower. Her long time suitor proposed to her and she was having a small party with her closest female friends and family to celebrate the occasion before the big day, after which she would be leaving Biloxi for a town further north. The fact I was invited at all is surprising enough; the fact people came knowing I was coming is even more shocking.

The thing with parties that makes me uncomfortable sometimes is that I _love_ them, and I love going to them, and I love planning them, and I love dressing up in something special just for them… yet I've only ever been to one. Nobody invites me, or nobody ever comes to the ones I throw (so often that, up until my 18th birthday party, I hadn't planned a single party since I was eleven). Growing up, all I ever heard was how fun Ruth's bash was, how beautiful Virginia's ball gown turned out to be, how excellent the food was at Theodore's place. They were events I was never welcomed to, because I was 'creepy', 'weird', 'strange', 'abnormal'. The rare time I was invited, it didn't turn out so well for the poor person who so bravely insisted I come.

_"Where is everybody?" I asked Mary Beth at her thirteenth birthday. _

_We sat at the dining table with Lottie and Edmund, staring at the platters of delicious food, impatient to serve ourselves dinner. I was the only one formally dressed, as it had instructed on the invitation; apparently, Lottie had convinced Mary Beth to change it to casual attire at the last minute, without informing me. I didn't mind – we were young, and it was my first chance to dress so nicely. I was so excited. I sewed my own gown, even going so far as to adding real flowers to it – Father said I smelled lovely. But when minutes passed, Mary Beth decided nobody else was coming and started cutting herself a slice of pie – it was her birthday, she could have dessert before dinner if she wanted to. At first, I thought she was being funny. Then I noticed Lottie giving her a pointed look. Even Edmund looked knowing, though he stayed silent, as usual. Mary Beth's parents glanced at me, and continued to do side-eye me the whole night, whispering at each other. After we ate and couldn't think of any game to play with just the four of us, that's when the depressing realization struck me. I pulled my friend aside._

_"Mary Beth, I'm sorry," I said. "It's my fault, isn't it?"_

_She raised her eyebrows at me, feigning confusion. But I knew she was acting. _

_"Your fault? I don't understand what you mean."_

_"It's okay, Mary Beth. You don't have to pretend for my sake. You talked all week about your big party and how the whole class was coming, but the other kids don't like me."_

_She seemed taken aback by my straightforwardness, but I saw no reason to beat around the source of the problem._

_"It's not your fault, Alice," Mary Beth finally said, placing her hand on my flowered shoulder and smiling reassuringly. "I shouldn't have invited you. But it's okay, we can still have fun. You look pretty, by the way. Now, come on." _

She had giggled and pulled me by the hand back toward our friends, like she hadn't said anything wrong. And maybe I could have called her out on it, that it should not have mattered what the other kids thought because she was supposed to be my friend, but I figured she was just being honest. Mary Beth's never one to bring a subject up, but once it is she has never been the sugar-coating type – whether it's because she's straightforward or merely ignorant, I never cared. I wasn't in the position to turn down a friend, let alone a friend who invited me to her party, even if she did come to regret it. And I knew that she had every right to regret it, even if it wasn't my fault, either.

It was never my fault. Mother always told me it wasn't. Grandma always told me so, too.

But maybe it was.

Maybe it still is.

So as I sit on Mary Beth's floor, my legs bent uncomfortably under me, crowded into a circle of girls who have their envious eyes on Mary Beth's right hand, while Mary Beth herself announces her wedding is next Saturday afternoon, I should feel delighted to be a part of it.

I am not.

It's crowded and stuffy and I've been ignored by everyone but Mary Beth since I arrived, which I had been afraid of. To make matters worse, the moment Mary Beth gave me the date of her wedding it triggered something in my gut. Something immediately felt off.

This wedding, I feel, is a bad idea.

"Is it not the most gorgeous rock you have ever gazed upon?"

Mary Beth now has her engagement ring displayed out to her audience: a shimmering white stone embedded neatly onto a ring of silver. It is beautiful, all glistening gray and translucent rainbows. Costly, too. It's obvious many girls wish they were in her position – engaged and with a diamond as brilliant as the one being shown off. I wonder if they would want to be in her place if they knew her future husband is not all he seems. Because, yes, I see it now. In a matter of seconds it's gone, but I get a glimpse of the problem my instinct was warning me about just moments before. The man Mary Beth has chosen to marry has a secret, and even he may not be aware of it.

Suddenly, everyone is standing, heading to the kitchen. Mary Beth's mother must have called us in for the desserts she's made.

When the room is cleared out, I remain sitting, alone and faced with an awful dilemma. My fingers worry at my bottom lip. I take a second to gather my thoughts.

There is something in Mary Beth's fiancé's history that has not been confronted, something potentially dangerous. It is still unclear to me what exactly the problem with him is, but it is a permanent problem as far as I can tell; the only way it will change is if Mary Beth backs out of marrying him entirely, which she won't consider because - why should she? She doesn't see the things I do.

_It isn't my business. It isn't my business. It isn't my business._

Oh, it's never my business! But what can I do?

It isn't safe to exchange vows with that man. But on the other hand Mary Beth won't want to hear it. My parents will be angry if I say anything. It's been a few years since I last mentioned a single premonition out loud to anybody. Years! If I say anything to Mary Beth now, it may ruin everything for me.

But if I don't – everything may be ruined for her.

I let out a heavy breath and head for the kitchen, my decision made.

What kind of friend am I if I ignore my instincts and let her deal with it on her own, simply because it is easier for me?

Easy isn't my way of doing things, anyway.

In the kitchen, I'm the last to grab a plate and fill it with a variety of cookies and cakes from the assortment Mrs. Carter has set out. Mary Beth makes room for me at the table. She goes into wedding details – the cake, the invitations, the dress – all things I wish I can enjoy properly. My mind is too distracted and I can't think straight. I only catch snippets of the color theme she wants, only enough to comment that lavender would look best with a light green or beige, rather than a darker hue; she accepts the advice well enough, and I get the feeling she'll actually listen to me. I don't want to jinx it, but that is a good sign – Mary Beth can be stubborn.

As the party nears its end, my palms start to sweat. My heart beat rises, begins playing the music of the anxious. I ignore all conversation around me. I may seem rude, but I doubt anyone is paying me much attention anyway. Mary Beth is arguably my only friend (excluding Luther Hayes, if I am so bold) so I need to warn her in a way where she won't be frightened off. My warnings have never _not_ alarmed their respective recipients, but I like to be optimistic.

Before I can come up with a concrete way to gently bring the topic up, Mary Beth is thanking the last guest for coming and seeing them out. Again, I am the only one left in the room. My time has run out. Mary Beth turns to me.

"Thank you for coming, Alice—"

"Mary Beth, I need you to know something," I blurt before my nerves make me ill. Being cautious never has suited me, despite all the times I must be.

My friend blinks at me, tilts her head in curiosity. She waits.

"How much—How long have you known your fiancé?" I decide on asking. It's innocent enough.

Mary Beth taps her cheek in thought. "Mmm, oh it's been quite a few months. You should know that, Alice." She laughs lightly, and starts collecting dirty dishes.

I help her as I talk. "Well, marriage is just a big step to take, I'd think. I was wondering how much you knew of him."

Plates drop harshly into the sink, so hard I am afraid some may have been cracked. Mary Beth pierces me with a harsh gaze. I know that look – it is suspicion.

"What are you trying to say, Alice? You know I don't care for guessing games. Either tell me what you want to say or go home. The party is over."

"I just want what's best for you," I reply. "You're my best friend. I care about you."

There is a pause. Mary Beth asks, "And?"

"And… I have a bad… feeling. About him."

The silence that ensues is awkward at best – at worst: intimidating.

I've been holding back any form of preternatural warnings for so long, this simple confession brings a disconcerting sense of vulnerability. The slow recognition contorting Mary Beth's face does not help ease my trepidation. I fiddle with the hem of my blouse, winding and unwinding my fingers through the ribbon. I debate whether to say something more; eventually, I do.

"Oh, please, Mary Beth, postpone the wedding at least. Just a little while. Get to know him a little more – his family, his history—"

"Alice."

"Mary Beth, I—"

"No. Do not. Don't you dare say another word. I hope for your sake that I am wrong about why you are telling me this. Please leave." I don't move. "Go, Alice."

I know Mary Beth well enough to see when the conversation is over. No words of mine will break her resolve; if anything, I made her more determined to stick strongly to her engagement. So I nod, and I step out of her home. Before she closes the door behind me, I say, "See you at the wedding?" It comes out more uncertain than I wanted.

Mary Beth continues scowling at me. Then she closes her eyes with a sigh, affirms with an incline of her head, and closes the door between us.

OoOoOoO

In spite of my appeal, Mary Beth is adamant to marry the man I foresee has some sort of problem in his life that will undoubtedly affect hers. There is nothing left I can do.

Well, there is one thing. And I think about it as I wash up and change for the wedding that is today. It's something Mother taught me a long time ago:

Keep my business to myself, leave others to theirs, and simply be there to support them as they fight their own battles.

I can support Mary Beth. Most definitely I can.

And, oh, do I hope it's enough.

Mother and Cynthia attend the ceremony with me; Father has left for another week of trade. I am happy, at least, to see her colors are light and floral and matching – at least I helped her do something right.

In church, Mother leads us into a pew. The benches are hard and uncomfortable. Music fills the hall and soon Mary Beth is parading down the aisle holding her father's arm and for a moment I am genuinely smiling; she looks beautiful, with her dress and the happiness that reaches her eyes. It is only when she reaches the alter that I remember her happiness will be short-lived. I find it hard to enjoy myself after that.

It is hard to appreciate the exchanging of the vows when I can only picture a foreboding future for the marrying couple, so I appreciate Luther Hayes in his tuxedo instead, sat a row in front of me, four people over. I dance with him at the reception an hour later and it is the highlight of the evening; Mother quietly teases me after, but I know she likes him.

Out of politeness and support, I join my family to wish Mary Beth and her new husband a happy life together. Mary Beth may or may not hear the unsaid warning behind my congratulatory words. If it makes her uneasy, she doesn't show it.

It's the only time I talk to her all evening.

As I watch the newlyweds drive away at the end of the night, both peering out the back window of their cab to wave at the friends and family being left behind, I whisper against the cheers, "Good luck, Mary Beth. Stay safe."

Soon the cab disappears, and I wonder if I will ever see my best friend again.

OoOoOoO


	2. Chapter 2

OoOoOoO

It's spring now, a time when the weather is usually warm and balmy with an increase in humidity. The impending heat that the next few months promise doesn't bother me. I enjoy being in the sun, where it's bright, warm, and my skin darkens with freckles in the light.

To celebrate the beginning of Spring, Mother and I walk to town rather than drive. Mother is quite fond of her Model T, yet she hardly drives it. I'm not above complaining when we walk long distances when there are other, quicker ways to get around, but today is gorgeous; it would be a shame not to take advantage of it. I do suggest we make it quick, however, telling Mother that the start of the Spring season is also known for sudden bouts of rainfall, and this afternoon will be the first. "I'm guessing," I add when she gives me a look.

She knows I am not guessing.

Like every time we go into town to sell our fruit in the market, Luther Hayes comes by, full of compliments and sweet smiles that Mother silently finds amusing. When I start flirting back, though, she orders me to get back to work. His visits are the highlight of my days and I just know, as each day passes, my future is slowly merging with his.

OoOoOoO

Every other day I bring a basket of fruit from our orchard over to my aunt and uncle and cousins. I don't mind the walk – it's short and the air is moist and comforting as it clings to me (something anybody else would complain about, I suppose) and the sun has set far enough where the temperature isn't sweltering. For being Spring, the temperatures have so far been rather high, very summer-like; I wear my lightest dresses with the least amount of collar so my neck is able to breathe.

My aunt and uncle's house is a wide two-stories, painted a grayish white that has dulled quickly over time, with grime-stained windows and a wooden porch that looks to be at its breaking point. Uncle Bert and Phillip have been fixing the place up, but the process has been slow. What lacks on the outside, the inside makes up for. The house is decorated with Aunt Louisa's collections of quilts and hand-carved, hand-painted trinkets, and there's a bowl in the kitchen that I visit often for it's never empty of assorted candies.

Ascending their porch's oblique steps with caution, I hear my cousins through the panels of house. They've always been the loud portion of my family. Their natural excitement about everything is something I love. It is a trait my father possesses, as well... A debatable fact, though, if one is to see how he is recently. Dull and serious does not suit him, and it makes me a bit anxious to wonder the cause of his abnormal behavior...

I save the thought for another time as I wrap happily on the screen door, eager to see Phillip; it bangs loudly against the main door. Stella – my aunt and uncles eldest daughter who is a year younger than me – answers instantly and leads me into the family room where the rest of her family sits, listening to Phillip explain plans of some sort. His sandy bangs are falling into his eyes as he gestures wildly with his hands. Animated, in the middle of a sentence, is when he stops abruptly, seeing me. His smile widens, crinkling his eyes.

"Oh, Alice, I'm glad you're here!" he exclaims. He puts one arm around my shoulders and takes the fruit-filled basket with his other hand, putting it dismissively on the corner table.

I can't imagine what it is that has him so elated, but I can't wait to hear. If one person in this world deserves to be cheerful in whatever he pursues, it is Phillip.

"I was just telling Ma and Pa here that I've decided to head to – you'll never guess –," he whispers. And before I can even try he throws his hands up and shouts, "California!"

_California._

My anticipated smile remains on my face, not straying; but I far from feel it anymore. I stare at Phillip. I stare through him, past him, into a world I should not, for his words trigger something in my mind and I see it – I see him. He is gone, and he is never coming back.

I take such a sharp intake of air that I nearly choke.

"Isn't that a brilliant idea?" Phillip asks, beaming, brown eyes sparkling and light, appearing the color of the caramelized hard-candies that sometimes fill Aunt Louisa's candy bowl. He looks so happy, so thrilled, and I… I know he should not be. No one should!

I'm quiet for a moment too long. My lack of response confuses everyone in the room. Phillip laughs once, nudges me playfully, and asks if I'm all there.

"Don't go," I say finally. Phillip's smile doesn't falter.

"Look, I know it may seem far away from here, a state filled with… who knows what kind of people? But there are so many stories of fortune coming out of there… People from all over the country, the world even—"

"No," I interrupt. "This is a bad idea. This is really bad." Worse than Mary Beth, I think. So much worse.

"You silly girl, Phillip has a magnificent opportunity. Are you even aware of the riches pouring out of the west? Phillip is a strapping, fit young man who can bring wealth and pride to this family. California is the key to his success."

Aunt Louisa believes her words. But I know better. My response comes out stern and rather rude.

"California is no good for him," I say, feeling brave and confident and just plain ol' scared, because if they don't listen to me…

Phillip's face scrunches, displeased, and my disposition wavers because I didn't mean for him to take my words personally. His feelings were not meant to be hurt.

I promise hastily, "It isn't you! It is just— I— You can't—" I stumble over my words, conscious that I am forbidden to say what I feel will happen if Phillip sticks to the path he is on, but knowing that I have to. I must warn him. There is no other way!

"Phillip, I have a bad feeling about it."

My cousin's smile is back.

"Oh, Alice, it's okay to be unsure. The thought is probably intimidating to you. I mean, you've only known this little ocean town your whole life, but trust me when I say it's fine."

I stand firmer. My voice hardens.

"It is not fine. Listen to me. Something awful will happen if you go. Something terrible. Going west is a bad idea. I just know it."

The room is silent. Everyone watches me; especially Uncle Bert and Aunt Louisa. I'm uncomfortable with their scrutinizing stares. I ignore them. I grab Phillip, wrap my arms around his waist, bury my face into his torso.

"Please, you can't go! Don't go!"

There are no reassurances. I feel sick. That feeling in my pit of my stomach is back, and I'm sinking, drowning in the knowledge that, once again, nobody is going to listen to me.

Phillip rubs soothing circles in my back but he knows to stay silent. He knows what I've done, what I've said, what I've admitted. He lets Uncle Bert pull me away from him to escort me out of the house. Uncle Bert tells me to go home. I do.

My night only gets worse when I find Cynthia in silent tears on the couch as my parents argue up in their bedroom. Nothing seems to be going right tonight.

OoOoOoO

Spring is one of the best seasons for picking. The aroma in the whole area is strong and sweet. The trees are covered richly with glossy leaves, fragrant flowers, and fruits in various stages of ripeness. The air is thick, clingy, and just the way I like it, though I can't speak for anybody else working in the orchard. It's easy for me in this heat.

To be fair, I am shirking my duties. I sit at the top of a short ladder, a book in hand. I read in the shade of the tree I am slowly de-fruiting, if that is a correct verb at all. I am certainly not working too hard, in any case, and I find I care very little about that fact.

Our live-in maid – living in the back house, at least – picks from the tree next to me. Miss Sarah Anne, is her name. She is a lovely woman. I sometimes sew pretty designs on her dresses; she is always wary at first, afraid if I will ruin the few she owns, but I promise her she will love them, and she does. Of course she does.

I see Mother come out of the back door. She turns her eyes on me the moment I turn mine away from her, quickly picking a fruit – any fruit regardless of ripeness – and toss it in my basket.

Mother is standing beside my ladder no less than a minute later, arms folded over her chest, foot tapping at the dirt. I don't meet the gaze I'm sure is on me.

"Alice." Her tone is exhausted and definite and I know I'm being scolded. My mother has a way with being gentle and terrifying in equal measures at the same time. "Are you paying attention to what you are doing?"

I don't answer, because what's the point. It's a trap question. She knows I haven't been.

"You know how I hate bruised or unready fruit in the baskets I take to the market. Now would you stop reading, please, and get back to what's important?"

"That is not a flexible request, by the way," she adds, knowing me too well. She moves on to speak to Miss Sarah about the harvest.

It's tedious today, this work, but I close the book and get back to it. I never saw the inked words printed on the pages anyway; when I tried to focus, every other word transformed into something depressing, such as "accident" and "Phillip" and "too late".

Phillip and his family never brought up what I said about Phillip leaving. Never acknowledged my begging or my _feeling_. The night Phillip left he stopped by to say his goodbyes, which was only yesterday, yet feels far longer. Phillip is one of my best friends, and now I will never see him again. I don't know where, I don't know the date, but I know he is going to die and it will be soon and it won't be here and…

I swipe fast at the tears falling down my cheeks. I can't let Mother or Miss Sarah Anne see me crying for fear they'll question as to why. If Aunt Louisa and Uncle Bert are keen to keep my outburst between us, then so be it. Taking deep breaths, I settle my emotions as best I can.

It is far from fair, I think, that I am given these glimpses into events that I don't ever seem to have the power to stop. Things like Mary Beth's marriage and Phillip's accident are among the worst to predict. Easily compared to a train when its breaks have given out and there's nothing the driver nor the passengers nor the onlookers can do to stop its inevitable destructive conclusion, even when lives are at stake.

Then again, even knowing an outcome doesn't necessarily mean one will be _willing_ to change their course. The things that happen in the future, I've discovered, don't always come to fruition... And I don't understand the logic of that, can't figure out how that works when my feelings, no matter how strong or how visual, don't come true. It's rare, but it happens. It's a defect that I can hope has happened here with my prediction for my cousin. At the same time, however, I would hate to jinx it.

Maybe if Phillip had the odd foresight he'd be able to change his own mind, see his own mistakes and fix them accordingly (though I am all too aware picking and choosing what you see is not how it works). Of course, Phillip is bold and adventurous and daring. If he was anywhere near as intuitive as me, he would never be afraid of the things he'd see. He'd know the future could change, and he's take the risk. And I know what he would say, too – the same thing he said to me the night he left, when he petted my hair and told me I was his favorite sister (even though I am not his sister) and hugged me tight for the last time:

_"We only get to be human once, Alice. I'm going to make the most of it."_

I was certain he was trying to reassure me of something he didn't quite understand himself. But now, having no ounce of doubt that he would have said it again regardless, just as confident, I think maybe he knew exactly what he was saying.

Or maybe he was being too reckless and too optimistic and he should have just listened to me! Because he's not coming home - he's not.

A harsh, shrill ring interrupts my dreary thoughts. Mother sighs, still across from me, helping Miss Sarah with her tree.

"I'll get the telephone," Mother says, heading back to the house.

"Yes, Mrs. Brandon."

Slowly, I pluck a ripe fruit from its branch, examine it and toss it in the basket, not bothering to care if I bruise it in the process.

"Miss Alice, if you don't mind me asking…" Miss Sarah rests her own basket on her hip as she looks me over. "Where is that beautiful smile of yours today?"

"Gone forever just as Phillip has," I mutter without a thought.

"Oh, Miss Alice, that sweet boy? He'll be back." I just shake my head, eyes watering up again without my permission. Miss Sarah senses my sadness. "I know you were very close to him, huh? Must be difficult – him leavin'."

I squeeze my eyes shut. I don't want to hear this. She doesn't understand; she doesn't know. And I am losing an inner battle. My emotions are overthrowing my patience and self-control so rapidly I cannot construct a single clear thought.

Miss Sarah is still talking. I miss most of what she says, and when I tune back in out of sheer politeness she mentions the high odds Phillip has out west.

I snap.

"He isn't ever coming back, Miss Sarah!" Startled, she quiets. "He is gone! Or he will be…" I run my palms down my face, groaning, frustrated.

"W-What…" she starts to say, but is interrupted by Cynthia skipping up to us with her own basket of fruit, filled and finished.

"Who is gone?" my little sister asks, so innocent it pains me.

Before I can answer, Mother returns to the orchard, and I immediately notice her eyes. They are swollen and red and my heart plummets so fast that I know I'm not ready, I'm not prepared for whatever she has to say.

She speaks anyway. "Girls, I have some bad news…"

I choke, tears finally freeing from their cage, spilling over my cheeks. Miss Sarah eyes me in confusion, as does Cynthia, and when I look at Cynthia I cry harder because she loved Phillip, too. The sadness will never end.

"Oh, God," I whimper.

Comprehension dawns on my mother's face - I am well aware of what news she holds. She focuses on Cynthia, then. She kneels in front of her and speaks gently. "Honey, it's difficult to tell you this, but our cousin Phillip was in an accident."

"Phillip?" Cynthia's eyebrows quirk, curious, wary.

Mother nods, sighs, and finishes, "He was hurt too badly to be saved."

Miss Sarah's hand flies to her mouth, muffling her gasp.

Cynthia looks at me, fearful of Mother's tone and my sobbing and Miss Sarah's reaction. "What…? You mean he's…"

"Yes, honey... Phillip is in Heaven now."

Mother hugs Cynthia as the seven-year-old runs into her arms. Miss Sarah Anne shakes her head in sympathy – she was fond of Phillip, the young man who treated everyone more kindly than they probably deserved – and now she understands, now she knows that that 'sweet boy' is never coming back.

Hearing the news out loud seemed to finalize it, make it real. I gasp for a breath, excusing myself. I run to my room and shut the door, lye on my bed with my face pressed into my pillow to muffle my cries. It hurts. My head aches and my heart stings and this should not have happened because he should have listened to me when I told him leaving was a bad idea because what's the point of making the most out of being human and alive if you are **not** _alive_ at the end of the day to appreciate it?

It's like no matter what I do or say no one will ever listen to me.

_Why will no one listen?_

You can predict your whole life down to the most miniscule details, and still nothing will ever prepare you for the death of someone you love. Of that, I am thoroughly convinced. It hurts worse, I think, when you know, when you prepare. Because you shouldn't be preparing – you should be _saving_. And I gave up. I gave up because no one would listen. If that's not the silliest excuse in the book! I've stopped car accidents before – I could have done it again! No, I didn't know what kind of accident would be his undoing, but I should have stalled him just in case. I should have tried _harder_!

"No more," I sob into the mattress.

No more will I hide what I know. If the things I see can be used to spare anyone else's loved one from being lost, then why should I keep it to myself? They deserve every chance I can grant them to salvage their lives.

Every single chance.

I will die before I let someone else lose a brother like I have.

OoOoOoO

The next two hours pass in a blur of tears. Sometimes I am not even thinking of anything in particular, simply floundering in the sorrow Phillip's concluded death has brought. I would be embarrassed by my behavior if I was not so helplessly distraught.

Cynthia comes in our shared bedroom when the sun starts to set, tells me it's time to wash up for dinner. I ask her how she's holding up; she says she's "sad but okay". I wish I can say the same.

I am sluggish on the way to the washroom. When I am passing the staircase, I hear Mother and Miss Sarah speaking in the entry hall. I recognize Mother's tone as persuasive, pleading, and more than a little despairing. I know it's wrong, but I pause to listen.

"Miss Sarah, I assure you that it is nothing like that."

"I heard her, Mrs. Brandon, ma'am. I heard her with my own ears. I'm a smart woman. I don't need any more to know that she knew something was going to happen to that boy."

Her words are like an electrical shock; my body goes rigid, and my heartbeats increase in frequency.

"What Alice feels… It's strong intuition is all it is," Mother says, letting out a breathy laugh. A desperate laugh. "Sometimes nothing bad happens at all. It's just Alice – er – being Alice."

"No. No! I am sorry, ma'am, I truly am. But I've heard things about your daughter and I didn't want to believe. Now I've seen it firsthand and I cannot ignore it. I am not comfortable working here any longer."

I hear the front door swing open.

Mother makes one last attempt to salvage our live-in maid. "Please, Miss Sarah, don't leave. The girls love you."

Miss Sarah's response isn't clear from where I'm standing, hidden atop the staircase, but I know it's just another apology, another maid gone, running in fear, because of me.

When the front door finally closes and I hear Mother's sigh, I tip-toe to the washroom and splash cold water on my face. The cold stings, but I welcome it. I need to wash the sweat and dirt and sadness away. I need to distract myself from every tragedy I saw coming, from every pain that could have been avoided if people would only _listen_ and if I would have only tried harder.

Downstairs, Mother hugs me, kisses my forehead, and asks me if I'm alright in the same way I had questioned Cynthia. Just as I had, Mother knows nothing can possibly be alright.

My tears are never-ending tonight. Mother wipes at my cheeks and pulls me closer. She asks again if I am okay, if I need a cup of water, if I need to have a little nibble of something to hold me over until dinner is ready, if I am truly, one-hundred percent not falling apart because it looks like I am.

Father, out of any time in the day to come home, enters the house at this moment, as silent as he ever is these days. He wanders into the kitchen, searching us out, and that's when I get tired of Mother's pestering about my feelings. I tell her that I tried to warn them.

"What?" Confusion is evident on Mother's brow.

"I tried to warn them, Mother. Phillip, Aunt Louisa, Uncle Bert… I told them Phillip should not go. He should not go to California."

Father is paused in the middle of the kitchen, staring at me, then at Mother. His eyes are full of questions, but also intense wariness – it's a look I know well, from before, when I used to always tell people what I thought was best for them. Neither Father nor Mother approved of it then, and I don't know if I expect them to now, but I need them to know that I tried to save Phillip. I really, truly did.

Mother is the one who breaks the silence that ensued after my confession. "You…told them you had a feeling something bad would happen to Phillip?" I nod. "When was this?"

"A few days ago, when I was dropping off their fruit and he told me the news for the first time…"

Behind me, Father scoffs. "Louisa contacted me, you know?" I turn and see him shaking his head in disappointment. "All she told me was to keep an eye on you, that you were speaking strangely again. Alice, you know you can't do that."

"But—"

"Do not argue with me." He turns his focus on Mother. "What has happened this time?"

Mother's answering sigh drips with exhaustion. Her eyes close. She says, "Phillip left for California today. He didn't make it out of the state before he was hit." She pauses, but she's silent for too long and Father somehow detects the tragedy beneath the layers.

"Oh no, Helen… No. Oh, no."

Mother is nodding, tears pricking the corners of her eyes, unwilling to fall but also unwilling to not be seen.

Father pulls out a chair from under the dining table and seats himself on it, running his hands down his face and through his hair and just looking like he received the worst news – which he has.

"Devastating," he says after a moment. "Absolutely awful. He had so much going for him. He was such a good kid!"

"He was," Mother agrees, dabbing her eyes with her apron. She pats my cheek next. I hadn't noticed I was crying again.

But of course I was.

OoOoOoO

Dinner is quiet, nothing but metal scraping glass and the occasional sigh. Mother sends Cynthia and I to bed with goodnight kisses and the news that Phillip's funeral is in three days.

The sleep is restless tonight. And when I do sleep, I dream up horrible images that I don't ever want to see again.

I spend my time awake in a constant state of worry, something I'm far from used to. Not even four months has it been since my eighteenth birthday and my naïve wishes for love and attention and greater things. Life isn't better just because it isn't simple.

Maybe, even, it's worse.

OoOoOoO

The day of Phillip's funeral I wake up unprepared for the day's events. I hate being sad, and I expect a lot of that. I also expect a lot of crying, and I plan to be worn out the rest of the day.

Father drives Mother, Cynthia, and me to the church, all of us dressed in our nicest clothes, all of us ready to allow Phillip to rest in peace.

At the church, however, Aunt Louisa screams at me. Then at my father.

"Keep that child of yours away from my family, you hear me, Henry!"

Father tries to calm her, but to no avail. Nothing will nullify the accusations I can't believe are being put on me. Aunt Louisa blames me for jinxing Phillip's trip, for cursing him in a way only someone possessed can do. Uncle Bert and the girls scowl silently at me, and I know they're just as disillusioned and critical.

I am unwanted at my own cousin's funeral, and my family is unwanted by association.

Father tries again to subdue his sister's anger, as more curious heads start to turn. "Louisa, please, you're making a scene."

"A _scene_? It's that defected girl's fault my son is…dead, Henry! My boy, my Phillip gone because of her! You'll keep her away from my family!"

My whole body shakes.

"She only wishes to pay her respects to Phillip," Mother starts, but Aunt Louisa isn't listening. She's having none of it. In her eyes, I am a monster.

"I will not allow her near his grave," she spits, face reddened to a dangerous shade. "Ever! That child needs help, Henry - she always has! I want your family away from here. I don't ever want to see that girl's face again!"

Father turns us around without glancing back, his hand tight on my shoulder, like a restraint. It's uncomfortable, but I follow wordlessly. I know this is my fault. I know he blames me.

My previous day's resolve to proudly display what I am is crushed. There will be no revisiting the topic for me. Hate radiates all around me, featuring disgust and isolation. My dream of freedom to be myself and to be appreciated for what I try to do for people (complete strangers, sometimes) is over. I don't want to think that, but it is! It is. I don't feel good anymore; I feel absolutely wretched. Like a poison-dipped knife skewered into my chest, being accused so publicly that I am the cause of Phillip's death is the main blow that is harsh and vivid and makes me see red, while simultaneously being the catalyst of a disease that will slowly and precisely tear me apart from the inside out. Everything around me is dulling, is fading, is disappearing and turning into something darker.

If my heart isn't broken enough as it is, that last thing I hear before Father drives out of the lot is Aunt Louisa shrieking her final offense.

"May the Lord show you mercy for breeding _that_!"

OoOoOoO

That night, I sleep soundly for a full ten hours and do not wake until the sun is already past my window. Even then, I do not get out of bed; instead, I lay on my back, pillow over my face, thinking of nothing. Because I have that feeling again - the one in my gut. And this time it's telling me yesterday was only a prelude to something much, much bigger.

OoOoOoO


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you so much for the reviews. I know this type of story is kinda overdone, so thanks for giving mine a fair chance.**

* * *

OoOoOoO

It takes three days for my family to be comfortable going out to town again after that. When they do go out, they hear the words _witch_ and _changeling_ beginning to circulate in a way they hadn't since I was a child. For this reason, more than any other, is why they continue to keep me home, away from the public.

Father doesn't look at me anymore, except when I ask a direct question, and even then I feel as if I am an annoyance.

Mother flits back and forth from the house to the orchard, busying her mind with her work.

Cynthia is the same as she's always been – giggly and energetic. She doesn't ask too many questions, and she doesn't believe what people in town say about her older sister because Mother and Father clearly don't see a problem (although I am sure they do). And she loves me, is too innocent to see something even remotely bad in me. I play with her a lot while being locked away in the house. She tries not to show how much she enjoys the attention, but I see it. It's nice to know I have the ability to make one person happy.

Sometimes, I wish I can make myself happy. But it seems in order to achieve that, I have to sacrifice others' happiness, and I find I am constantly unwilling to do that.

OoOoOoO

Mid-June is sticky and sweltering. Waves of heat are visible as I stare across the orchard. The workers in the shade picking the ripest fruit look like they could be pretty ripe themselves; the hardest ours of labor are afternoons in the summer, after all. From a distance, it almost appears everything is melting.

It feels that way, too, in light of recent events that have put me in hiding. I fail to see how keeping me isolated for a while will do much good.

Mother drenches a cloth in the tub of freshly poured water, not even bothering to wring out the excess before covering her face in it. "I can't remember the last time it has been this hot. It's merely June!"

It is hot, even for me. Even here in the kitchen it's too cozy, not enough air. I busy myself by returning to the dishes I am helping her wash.

"Mississippi's like that," I respond flatly.

Mother must hear the uninterest in my tone. I feel her eyes on me. I force an expression of content onto my face, pull up the corners of my mouth, pretend I'm looking at something wonderful just so my eyes will lighten in a way I know they are not, and just when I think it's worked she says, "Alice, my flower, what is the matter?"

"Nothing is the matter, Mother," I lie.

The truth is, I haven't been myself lately, since Miss Sarah's departure and the scene with Aunt Louisa and the isolation. I'm not the type you can lock away and expect to cope just fine. I miss things – working in the market, going to the bookshop, the refreshing exhilaration from stepping off our property and venturing into different scenery, watching the children play in the schoolyard, looking at the window displays of the dress shops that are too expensive for our budget. I miss the conversations I'd have in town. I miss the buzz of chatter and laughter there. I miss observing all the aging, ever-changing trends. People are always changing, is the thing; and I guess I hoped one day they would change enough to see Alice Brandon and not close up. To genuinely smile at me when I came around. To happily anticipate what stories I had to tell, without being cautious. To laugh at a joke or two I make or compliment my outfits. To treat me as they would a friend.

I _like_ people.

And I hate that people don't like me.

So being absent from town for so long, with gossip surely swirling around that I'm sure sheds nothing except a negative light on me, I am afraid the friendliness from them I worked years for will vanish.

I've tried to make the best of my situation, to ignore the creeping claustrophobia and any other worrisome circumstances that plague me, but then… but then I think of how many days have passed since I last saw Luther Hayes, as well. He came by the orchard once, the day after the funeral I couldn't attend. He heard about what happened to my cousin, knew I was close to him, and wanted to say he was sorry for my loss. Obviously he hadn't heard anything else about me at the time, unless he simply didn't buy into rumors. I hoped for the latter…but he hasn't been by to see me since, and I'm not allowed to go into town right now, so I can only wonder.

My answer to Mother's question results in silence. I'm sure she hasn't accepted my answer to ease her concern but she lets the subject drop. We clean in silence for several minutes. When I take another wet plate from her to dry, she speaks again.

"I ran into Winnie this morning. You know, Mrs. Carter – Mary Beth's mother?"

She pauses, waiting for me to reply to the news.

"Oh?" is all I say. Mary Beth is one of the last people I want to have a conversation about.

"We spoke about our girls, of course, and she hesitated when I asked about how Mary Beth was dealing with married life. Winnie said Mary Beth was fine, but I got the impression she was hiding something. So I asked Margaret Wilson if she'd heard anything on Mary Beth after the wedding – because you know Margaret and Winnie work together at the school house, right? And she said Mary Beth and her husband were having problems a couple weeks back. She said there was some kind of feud that led to the hospital."

"Is she hurt?"

I set the plate down, intently focused on Mother's gossip, while my stomach feels weighed down with trepidation.

"She's all better now, but her marriage is…" Mother shakes her head sadly. She doesn't say anything after. I prod for more information on this, but Mother's apparently told me all she knows and eventually I accept that.

Poor Mary Beth, I think.

At least she isn't seriously injured; at least she didn't end up with Phillip's fate.

Yet.

The thought is far from a pleasant one, and I hope she comes out of this experience wiser, that she and her husband will solve whatever problem needs fixing, that she'll be fine. Because if people won't listen to me, maybe they'll listen to themselves.

OoOoOoO

A week passes, slow, dull, and uneventful, until I'm finally free to leave our property if I so wish to. The freedom should thrill me, but instead I feel too isolated still, like I don't know how to go back to the way things were.

For today at least, since Mother isn't going into town until tomorrow, I decide to stay home. My cooking has gotten considerably better with nothing else but the orchard to keep me occupied, so I choose to practice baking fruit pies today. Unfortunately, much to my mother's dismay, the oven and I are not friends, and cooking is not a strong skill of mine. It takes me half an hour simply to gather the bowls and utensils I need for a recipe I've never tried before, and then another thirty minutes to gather the ingredients.

I'm in the middle of struggling with the mixing when two hard knocks bang against the front door. Pleased with the excuse to take a break, I answer it quickly. Outside, Mary Beth stands with folded arms and tired eyes.

"Mary Beth! How are you? I've been worried—" I have in mind to hug her, happy to see her again, unharmed, but she puts her palm out to stop me and interrupts my greeting.

"Nicholas has a history of insanity," she says.

It takes me a moment to figure out who Nicholas is. Once that is cleared up, 'insanity' hovers in my mind and I know it's the missing link, the problem I had failed to clearly foresee months ago when Mary Beth was only engaged to him.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mary Beth," I say, feeling guilty for not having known the exact cause of my ominous intuition. Maybe if I had – if I had brought up something concrete to question – that would have given her more incentive to believe me before it was too late.

"Nicholas would not have kept this from me."

My longtime friend doesn't continue for a moment, just stares at me. I blink back at her.

"Nicholas tells me everything – he always has. And you know what else? His parents – they said they had no idea this illness even existed in their family until now. The only time they had seen it occur was with Nicholas's great uncle. Now, do I honestly believe that is a '_family history'_ of insanity?"

The tone of her voice has me instinctively frozen where I stand. She doesn't go on, and I realize she wants me to answer her, though I assumed it was rhetorical and I have yet to understand where she plans to conclude her story.

"Erm… Mary Beth, if the doctors say—"

"The doctors only know the one side! Oh, Alice, I should have known from the very beginning what you were up to. All these years I kept you as my friend – out of pity, mind you – and here you go, making me regret it. You always were a regret to everybody, weren't you? You mess everything up."

My eyes widen. I am stunned. How could I possibly have anything to do with her husband's insanity?

She seems to read the confusion on my face. Suddenly, she's angry.

"Do not think for an instant that I am fooled by you, you little witch."

I gasp; the sound fuels my friend forward. She jabs her finger at me.

"I knew you were jealous of my engagement. Everyone was, but you… You went so far to make sure my marriage didn't last."

"This is insanity in itself, Mary Beth. What are you talking about?"

"The only person who is mental here, is you, Alice Brandon. You cursed my perfect marriage! My happily ever after is ruined because of you and your evil, devilish tricks!"

Disbelief pours out of me. "You believe I put a _curse_ on you?"

"Oh, don't you dare play innocent with me. I saw it. I saw it in your eyes at my wedding, and then I saw your lips moving as I drove away. You were chanting something, weren't you? Some twisted spell that doomed Nicholas and I before we even had the chance to begin."

How is it possible that my life is falling apart by the seams in the expanse of a seven day period? What I am hearing is almost too overwhelming to comprehend.

"No, Mary Beth. I would never— How can you even be saying this to me? We've known each other our whole lives."

"And I shouldn't have been so blind to the devil you really are. The other kids were right to stay away from you. You're possessed by something dark and unholy. A good for nothing witch!"

"I'm not—"

A burning pain spreads through my cheek as Mary Beth's hand lands on it, hard.

"Hey!" A strong voice shouts across the yard, from the direction of the shed, getting closer. "What is this?"

Father's arms are suddenly pulling Mary Beth off the porch. She kicks and he sets her down, but he stays firmly stanced between her and me.

"Mary Beth! Alice! What in God's name are you two doing? Is this any way for ladies to behave?"

"Your daughter is a witch, Mr. Brandon. A good for nothing witch who should burn at the stake for the things she's done to the people in this town!"

The words wound me, like a sharpened dagger carving through my back, paralyzing me as it hits my spine.

Father does not defend me.

"It's best you go home, Mary Beth." He says it calmly, but the underlying demand is loud and clear. Father has always been good at that. Most find it intimidating; Mary Beth is no exception. She backs away, her piercing green eyes still on me, glaring. They are deadly, and I find myself slightly frightened by them, as if they could actually pop out and physically harm me.

Though, perhaps it isn't physical pain I am being threatened with.

When Mary Beth makes her leave, Father orders me inside the house.

"Get inside, Alice."

"But, Father—"

"Now. Before someone else in this town finds something to blame you for." Eyes downcast, I step back slowly. Before I make it inside, Father suddenly turns on me, his voice harsh and reprehending. "What did I tell you about talking to people about your assumptions on their lives, Alice?"

"Not to," I answer. "And I tried to, Father, I really did. But I can't just sit around, knowing something bad could happen, and not do anything to try to stop it, can I?"

I watch, slightly fascinated, slightly panicked as his nostrils flare and eyes harden; the black of his irises remind me of molten onyx.

"Go inside," he orders again. There is no room for dispute. "And by God, Alice, I wish you were smart enough to understand this on your own." He walks away, back to the shed where he'd been working, pinching the bridge of his nose, with frustration and anger attached to him that he directs at me.

Shame swells within me, for I never like hurting Father. He doesn't mean these things he says. He just doesn't understand the way I do. He doesn't know how it feels to have this power on your shoulders, like most people don't.

_Like all people don't. _

The errant thought fills me with loneliness. I haven't thought about it that way before. Or maybe I did – once. I can't remember.

Sitting at the kitchen table, leaving the fruit pie forgotten on the counter, I fold my arms over the table and lay my head on top of them, trying to hold back my tears. For perhaps the first time I find myself asking why I am so different than everybody else. What sense does it make? I've never disliked who I am, but… But at the same time I have always tried so hard to be normal, to be like them.

I can't, I realize.

I can't be like them and be me simultaneously. I can't be my version of Alice, and be proud of who I am, if I am continuously trying to be their version of me. It's the most frustrating realization I've ever had. It irritates me how long it took to see this problem.

Everyone always wants to be their own individual – to wear the unique outfit that nobody else owns; to achieve a goal nobody else has yet to dream up; to be the genius who knows things everyone else does not.

Yet, I _do_ know things that others do not, and I am shunned for that which makes me what everyone yearns to be – different.

Unless I'm interpreting everything falsely; unless the question is not why can the world not accept what I am, but rather what is it that I should be accepting. Is it I who should acknowledge and own up to the fact that I have something inside me that is…bad?

OoOoOoO

Father leaves on a trip up to Illinois early the next day. He doesn't wait until after breakfast, when he used to chat with me and Cynthia and make us laugh even when Mother ordered us to stop fooling around and eat - he leaves before the sun even rises, without a hug or a kiss or a goodbye or even a reason. Cynthia shrugs it off as a one time thing, goes about her day as usual, not asking too many questions because Mother is beginning to avoid them anyway, if not being delusive. I, however, am suspicious of them both. Mother and Father have been acting differently lately, and I can't pinpoint why. I can only hope it will pass. I just want things to go back to the way they used to be, before my 18th birthday.

OoOoOoO

Life does not go back to normal.

Of course, it has only been a day; and of course, I've never been a patient girl.

To keep my mind off my worries and my confrontation with Mary Beth and being a malcontent person in general, I decide this will be the morning I go with Mother into town. It's been days since I last went and, although I feel distant from it all, I am looking forward to it. I miss the busy streets and the people and the shopping. We never could spend much, but Mother says she will let me pick out something special today. She must feel awful for me.

The trip turns out better than I expected. There are a few stares and disgruntled shop owners who watch my every move like I am some sort of criminal, but for the most part people are too busy today to stop and whisper and point at me like they have in the past. Or maybe, just maybe, I really have changed their opinions about me despite all the gossipers from the immediate days after Aunt Louisa's very public accusations. By the park, I even have a great humorous conversation with two lovely elderly women as I join them in feeding a group of tiny little birds.

The only downside to the day, I think, is the absence of Luther Hayes.

OoOoOoO

For the first time in a while, I walk with a genuine smile across my face, cheekbones prominent, eyes crinkled, genuinely happy for a moment that I know will pass yet refuse to not bask in while it's here. As Mother and I make our way home with no fruit and a lot of revenue, and a book and a new pair of shoes (my "something special" picks), I see Mother is smiling simply because she sees that I am. Everything I expected this day to be was not met, and I can't ask for more than that right now. I thought it was going to be so much worse than it was. Not seeing Luther was the only thing disappointing in town this morning, which is an easy fix, I think. There are worse things that could have happened to me, and they didn't, and there is nothing I appreciate more. Now that I am free from the confines of the house, I can go visit Luther at his home. Perhaps later this evening, before it gets dark.

I'm about to tell Mother these plans as we round the corner of the woods, the path wide now for cars, and leading straight to our house, when none other than Luther Hayes is in front of us. He heads this way, unknowingly toward us, head down, coming from the house like he was finally coming to see me and I wasn't home to greet him. Luckily I didn't miss him completely. He is barely out through the gate from the fence that borders our property when he looks up. Seeing me and my mother, he is startled to a stop.

I try to contain my rising heartbeat, a reaction of the foreign sense of giddiness seeping into me upon seeing Luther again after so long. Nothing about him has changed at all, except maybe slightly longer hair; his bangs curl loosely against his forehead and, from what is visible to me, at the nape of his neck and around his ears. He's still as handsome as ever. However, it's not until I'm right in front of him that I realize he isn't keeping eye contact with me. Perhaps being apart for so long has made him a bit bashful. I decide to greet him first, to break whatever he feels awkward about.

"Hello, Luther." I smile as if encouraging him it's okay, I still like him.

"Good afternoon, Alice, Mrs. Brandon," he replies, finally meeting my eye, then Mother's, while bowing his head.

Mother says her hello before excusing herself. I wait until she is through the gate and past the orchard before I turn back to Luther.

"I missed you at the market this morning," I say.

"Right. I didn't feel like going." He looks around, nervous, as though he thinks someone is watching us.

_Is_ someone watching?

After a moment, I decide that there is not.

"Something the matter?" I wonder. This is far from his usual behavior.

Luther hesitates, then swallows hard and says, "Look, Alice, you're pretty an' all, but— but you're not for me, ya know?"

The fluttering in my stomach doesn't die; instead it escalates. Escalates in a way that makes me feel sick. I fail to suppress the shock I feel at this unexpected confession of his. Luther sees my face and quickly clarifies, not as though he dreads hurting my feelings, but as though he is afraid of _me_.

"I know what you've been trying to do, and, to be quite frank with you: I don't like it. I can't trust you - no one can."

"What are you talking about?" I demand. As I question him, the answer hits me abruptly, and I know without a shadow of a doubt exactly what has happened, what Mary Beth has told him, the things I never stopped to wonder what would happen if they reached him.

Luther runs his hands through his hair, pushing the loose strands back, away from his face. His stance firms and his eyes harden with confidence, determination.

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about," he says. "You were jealous of Mary Beth's engagement and cursed her marriage when she didn't do what you wanted. You… You _predicted_ things, in the past, before I moved down here. Like you knew what was going to happen. Like you were a witch... Then you covered it up and pretended that none of it happened when it became too inconvenient for you. Mary Beth speculates you even altered the minds of the people in town so they would forget what you're capable of."

His words throw my mind into a thickening sadness, for each reason given gouges another hole in my heart.

"I knew there was something off about you... At first I thought it was a pleasant uniqueness; you were different from the other girls..." He narrowed his eyes at me. "Now I know what my instinct was trying to tell me, and that you were twisting my thoughts to your liking. Even Ginny warned me-"

"You needn't explain their _lies_ to me - I have had the unfortunate privilege to witness it firsthand."

Angry. That's what I am. Sad, too. Very sad. Too sad, I think. Luther steps back, away from me, and I realize tears are leaking from my eyes, sliding down my cheeks. The wind blows, and I'm suddenly cold.

"Now— Now, don't you be going getting all upset with me. You're the one tricking people." He steps backward again, then to the side, maneuvering around me in a slow circle that I follow until my back is to the house and his is to the road, because he is afraid of what I might do to him.

I don't deserve this. I have not done anything. Why is this happening? Why with Luther?

With each harrowing thought I grow angrier.

"I am not a witch!" I cry. "The only thing I did to Mary Beth was try to warn her!"

"Normal people don't know what's going to happen," Luther counters. His voice is harsh — or maybe I simply perceive it that way. Then he shifts to wariness, forcing himself to keep a level tone, for he likely does not wish to…provoke me. "Just stay away from me, ya hear? I'll be leaving for New York soon and I don't need you ruining things for me." He gives me one last look, a mixture of anger and fear and bravery (he has always been brave). Then he takes two more steps backward before turning on his heel and walking swiftly away. He glances back a couple times, cautious.

Even when he is out of sight I keep watching the path. The temperature seems to drop further, but I can't be sure if it is the air or just me — just me and my despair. It is a cloudless afternoon — or it was. The sunshine has died along with Phillip, vanished with Mary Beth, leaving behind a heavy darkness that pollutes my thoughts because there is too many, I think — too many people who have left. I cannot think straight, and I panic.

_"Don't leave me!" _I had wanted to yell after the boy I crushed on for two years. _"I am not a witch. They are liars. Don't leave. You can't leave. You liked me, too. You did!"_

He did.

But not anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

OoOoOoO

"They are bigots, the lot of them."

"Mother…" I sigh, delicately taking out the pins that hold my hair. This is a conversation I am not in the mood for. The sky is dark, the air is cold, and Luther Hayes has walked out of my life over rumors – stupid, vile rumors.

"They are, Alice." Mother tucks a yawning Cynthia into bed across the small room. "Every one of them who treats you differently, negatively, as if you aren't the wonderful girl I know you to be…" She sighs then, too, drops her head and mutters, "I have grown tired of pretending otherwise."

I am confused by her words, but she quickly kisses Cynthia's forehead, then comes to kiss mine, and then she bids us goodnight and heads off to her own room.

OoOoOoO

During the month that follows, the subject of Luther Hayes is never brought up again. In fact, I keep to myself, in town, in the orchard, in the house. I try not to make eye contact with anybody, and if I do it is brief. I smile only out of sheer politeness, unless I am home with only Mother and Cynthia; Father doesn't really talk to me anymore, not like he used to, so I don't talk to him.

It's strange, because he doesn't really talk to Mother, either. There's a disconcerting tension in the air between them that I do not only sense, but I see. And I cannot figure out its source.

OoOoOoO

It's the last week of August. The humidity is low due to the rainstorm we had over the weekend, but it remains uncomfortably warm for most. I spent most of the month inside, cleaning or sewing, using any scraps and material I could find to create full outfits for Mother, Cynthia, and myself. I've given up on going into town, unless Mother needs the help; she is rather capable without me, however, so I stay home. Someone needs to watch Cynthia after all, as Miss Sarah is gone and has yet to be properly replaced. I suppose word about the odd Alice Brandon has circulated farther than just our town.

"Alice! Alice, look what I found in the woods just beyond the orchard!" Cynthia sprints into our room at top speed, nearly running into me. I take a break from folding our freshly clean laundry into our trunks to see what she has. She carries three long green stems, blue-violet irises blossomed at the tips. "They are very pretty, aren't they?"

They are, so I nod.

"Except," I start with a smirk, "I distinctly remember Mother telling you not to go into the woods behind the orchard."

Cynthia's bright smile dims only slightly. She hums a bit, unsure of how to respond properly. I only laugh, which she visibly relaxes at, knowing I won't give her away. I tell her we'll put the flowers in a vase filled with water, and also that she really should listen to Mother from now on.

I know she won't. Not always. But I accept her consent as a guarantee anyway.

"Alice, Cynthia, I'm going into town for some much needed groceries," Mother announces from downstairs. "Mind the bugs while I'm out. If I get back and house is full of mosquitos, you are both moving to the shed."

Cynthia giggles at the threat she knows isn't a serious one. I laugh, too, before opening my mouth to deliver a playful, sarcastic response.

That's when I am suddenly no longer in my room.

The wooden floorboards transform into a mucky brown earth and the ceiling disappears, showing instead a blue sky in its place. My trunk no longer stands in front of me, but a path – a dirt path, surrounded by tall trees and flickering insects thriving in the humidity of the Mississippi air. I know it's Mississippi, because the trail is familiar. It is one I've taken before.

It is the trail into town.

Mother is walking down it now…but she is not alone. Somehow I know she is not alone.

Then I see him. There is a man wearing a dark suit with a matching hat that throws a shadow across his face. I realize he's a threat the moment it's already too late. He ambushes her when she walks by, pulling out a knife from his pocket. Mother's throat is slit, her body hitting the ground. I scream.

The laundry drops to the floor. Cynthia and her flowers are left forgotten in the room. I dart down the stairs, skipping every other step. Mother hasn't left yet; she heard me scream and is coming to check on me when I meet her at the foot of the stairs. I run straight into her, wrapping my arms around her like she can't ever leave our home if she is embraced by them. The story of my vision is out of my mouth before she has time to ask what is wrong. I cry when I am done telling her what I have seen.

"Don't leave. Please, Mother, you have to believe me," I plea, desperate for her not to go, not to turn out like Phillip. I could not survive another tragedy. And this would be so much worse, I think.

There was a time, years ago, when I felt betrayed by my mother and accused her actions wrongfully. The first days when talk of "that uncanny child of the Brandons" flowed uncaringly out of people's mouths, when kids no longer wanted to be my friend, when doctors refused to treat me, when my parent's customers disappeared… My mother was the one to counsel me to keep quiet about my premonitions. She said they weren't important, that it was unnecessary to foresee things that may or may not happen. If it was going to rain that day, though the sun shined in the morning and somebody didn't think to pack their slicker, then so be it, it was not my business.

My heart nearly broke at her words, at the time. I had only ever felt the need to help people. I saw things they could not, so why should I not give them guidance when I could? My mother's insistence that I keep quiet hurt me, and I shunned her love for weeks when I was old enough to think more on it – a sort of late rebellion for my ten-year-old self.

However, I was young and naïve. I did not understand her intentions as clearly as I do now.

Mother only wanted to protect me, for I was not old enough to protect myself. Or to feed myself. She had me and Cynthia to feed and care for – if customers were disappearing because of me, she had to do something to stop it, no matter what. I understand that now.

Yet, even during my adolescence, despite the precautions she took that I condemned unfair to me, Mother treated me no differently than she does today, than she ever did. She adored me, and I came to realize that, and the truth. And when my positive spirit starts getting worn out, it is my mother who replenishes my optimism. Even through this year of harrowing twists in my life, she is keeping me from not falling apart completely. I owe everything to her.

Out of anyone in this world, I cannot lose my mother.

"Shh… There, there, flower." Mother gently pats my head, which lies against her shoulder. "You must breathe and focus – panicking is never a good option when lives are at stake."

I sniff, then lift my head. Mother looks thoughtful, albeit troubled. Grateful and relieved that she believes me, that we don't have to fight over this, I take in her words as wise advice.

"I'm sorry. You're right." I let her free. She walks to the front door, and for a second I worry she's going to leave anyway, despite what I just told her. However, instead of leaving, she locks it and secures the chain.

"Close tightly all the windows – we'll pin blankets and towels over them as night falls. Alice, perhaps if I take a different route?" She pauses, rethinking; she and I both know that road is the only way to get to town on foot, and right now her car is one wheel short of driving. "How about tomorrow, then? Is tomorrow safe, do you wonder?"

I blink at her. Is she asking me to peer into the future, on purpose?

"Momma?" Cynthia peeks delicately out the front window; she's already closed it, quick to follow our mother's instructions. I didn't even realize she'd followed me out of our room. "Momma," she says again, still peering outside, "why is there a man out there?"

My stomach drops.

Mother and I run to Cynthia at the same moment, pulling her back; no one is more protected in this household than Cynthia, I think. Looking out the window, I see nothing but the drive and the entrance into the trees where I know a man is waiting for his victim.

"I'm sorry. I didn't see anybody," Cynthia whispers, eyes wide. She was only asking about my vision.

Mother relaxes her grip on Cynthia. She answers, "I have not a clue in the world why someone is out there. We are the only property close to these woods. Now, close the rest of the windows, quickly."

I race Cynthia to the kitchen, where I get the window and she gets the door. Not feeling safe enough with the windows uncovered even in daylight, I pin the sink towel on the wall so it hangs over the glass (we don't own curtains). After the three bedrooms upstairs have their windows closed off, I join Cynthia on the sofa in the Sitting room. Mother is there, standing in front of the fire place, loading Father's pistol, which seems to frighten my sister more. I wrap my arms around her. She leans into my chest and hugs me, eager for some sort of comfort.

OoOoOoO

Comfort does not come easy.

It doesn't come at all, really.

Cynthia and I sleep in Mother's room that night, and throughout the next day Mother constantly questions if I have seen anything of the dangerous man. I tell her I don't, but I can sense that it's still dangerous, that he is still out there, waiting. She listens to me.

There is no reason I can think why a man dressed in a nice suit would want to murder my mother, let alone wait specifically for her. At first, I believed he was a mad man and Mother would have merely been in the wrong place at the very wrong time. But I still got the feeling he was out there, patient, _waiting_. And then I saw him again. It was a blur of a vision, but he was there, and I realized he is not only waiting – he is searching.

It doesn't make sense. Not to me; not to Mother. She doesn't have enemies.

We keep locked in the house, though. We stay inside for another night and the following day. I want to be cautious. Very cautious. And I thank God every chance I get that Mother is taking me seriously, because it is the only thing keeping me from tears.

As the sun sets on the third night, Cynthia's stomach rumbles with hunger. She doesn't complain when Mother hands her a peach. We had been running out of food the day Mother planned to go into town; now we_ are_ out. The three of us satiate our appetites with fruit from the orchard. We don't go out for anything else. Father will be home tomorrow (afternoon or evening). We plan to hold off until then.

To pass the time less fearfully, Mother tells stories with bright characters and happy endings. I enjoy them as much as Cynthia. There's something about beautiful princesses overcoming whatever bad things happen in their life, finding a handsome prince or warrior or soldier that treats them so nicely, fighting for a future they deserve and winning it brilliantly. I start to wish I can be as effortlessly indestructible as the heroines in the stories seem to be.

As Mother begins the climax of her latest tale, we hear a loud noise outside, like a bang. Everything goes silent for a moment.

There's another bang, and all at once, Mother and I are standing up, too quick for our feet to keep up with, and stumbling to the window. We each pull back a side of the blanket that covers the glass.

The moonlight casts shadows across the land. There is a distinct shadow by the shed. A shadow in the shape of a man.

His head turns, and although I don't know if he can see us through the darkness, I know he is facing us.

Then he starts to move, headed toward the house.

"Mother!" I cry, jumping back, my stomach fluttering painfully, sending ripples of anxiety through my entire body.

Mother is flinging Cynthia into her arms while blowing out the two candles we have lit for light. She orders me upstairs and I don't hesitate. Mother is right behind me, Cynthia clinging to her. She pries Cynthia off her in the hallway and ushers us both into our room, demands we stay calm and focused and that I am to look after my sister at all costs, and that we are to hide under Cynthia's bed. Mother hovers by the door, pistol suddenly in her hand.

All we have now to do is wait.

Seconds go by and nothing happens. I start to count, in my head, the passing time. I am to seventy-nine seconds when the porch creaks loudly and the front door rattles.

Holding her free hand out, Mother backs Cynthia and me deeper into our room, whispering to us to get under Cynthia's bed. My sister immediately complies, but I hesitate.

A bold click resonates through the still house – the sound of the door unlocking. The intruder has no problem with the chain, and suddenly he's inside.

_He's inside!_

Mother edges little by little out the door, just enough to see and aim well. All I can wonder, is when did Mother become so brave? She's not even shaking, like I am.

There is no sound for a moment. The whole world is quiet, except the pounding of my pulse in my ears; it seems too loud to me, like the shadow man downstairs can hear it and locate my family accordingly. But I know it can't logically be a guide for him, that nobody else can hear it, so I ignore it and hold my breath.

I feel the hem of my dress being tugged, and I know it is Cynthia begging me to get under the bed with her. But I can't move, can't leave our mother to defend us alone. And I know that, if Mother were to lose to this intruder, Cynthia would not be quiet enough for hiding to matter anyway.

We listen as the man moves. Adrenaline shoots through my veins with each floorboard that utters a groan. The intruder halts. By the noise, I can picture his hands moving around Mother's writing table close to the door, searching for something – a lamp? – a weapon?

So abruptly that it makes me jump, the man's voice rings through the still house with startling sound.

And familiarity.

"Helen? Girls?" he calls.

"Father!" I gasp in unison with my mother's relieved, "Oh, sweet Jesus!"

"Up here, Henry," Mother calls, as she jogs to the stairs, and Cynthia and I scramble after her, eager for the security our father brings us.

A lantern fades on.

"Papa!" Cynthia flings herself at him before his eyes have the adequate amount of time to adjust to the light; when they do adjust, they go wide.

"What in the—"

We are too happy to have him home to care what he sees when he looks around the room.

"Oh, Henry, you have no idea the nightmare we have been living here." Mother hurriedly continues to fill him in on the details, as Cynthia and I cling to him; he gets irritated with our tugging on him and shoos us off.

As Father listens, his eyes narrow, very slightly, and then shift to me, and I cannot help the feeling his look brings, as if there is an underlying meaning in them, a message, something significant. It makes me feel I am the accused, though I have done nothing.

When Mother finishes, Father holds his palms up, steps away from Cynthia and I, and turns slowly, surveying the current state of our home. It's a mess, to be quite honest – there is dust on the mantle and dishes in the sink and the air is stale from no fresh air in days. The empty cupboards in the kitchen seem to be the final straw for Father's patience. He repeats our story, deliberately skeptical; so it surprises me that when Mother insists he go search the surrounding forest tomorrow he says he will go now. We watch wide-eyed as Father grabs a lantern and heads out. We watch the lantern float through the trees, coming and going, as Father bravely searches.

When he gets back, he's laughing at us. It is not amused laughter; it is incredulous, frustrated laughter, on the hint of mocking.

"There is nobody in those woods, Helen," he says. "There never has been, I can guarantee it. You've kept you and the girls locked away like prisoners over a silly fantasy." He gets louder. "After traveling for days, working hard so I am able to get home early, I come home to no hot meal, a dirty, stuffy house, and a wife and children who need a good washing up themselves. This is not what I want to come home to, Helen!"

"I am sorry for the trouble, Henry. Alice was sure—"

Father does not let Mother finish; he turns to me instead, still loud. "Alice, your goddamn stories need to stop! Do you hear me?"

I don't meet his dark eyes.

"Do you hear me, Alice?"

"Yes, Father."

"This is the last time I ever want to hear about them. Put away your childish behavior, because you continue to cause problem after problem. I expected better from you."

I bite my tongue, hold back tears, not bothering with a response, knowing he doesn't appreciate being talked back to.

"Go to your room, Alice," Father says after a moment. "Go to your room and think about the grief you put your mother and sister through."

I sulk, but head upstairs without argument. Surprising even to me, I don't feel like arguing. Part of me is so relieved that the threat is over for now that I am able to ignore any urge in me to explain to Father that I am not inclined to believe that that man was never out there or that he won't be back.

Cynthia comes in moments later. Exhaustion has embraced her. She climbs into her bed. I make myself useful and tuck her in tight, wishing her sweet dreams. She grins, saying she always has good dreams when everyone is home – me, Mother, Father.

Although drained of energy as I feel I am, sleep does not come instantly. Every time I close my eyes, that dark man is there, waiting. So I stare at the ceiling until my eyes burn, and my lids shut just long enough to sedate the fire before opening again, ridding my mind of the image I dread seeing.

"Alice, sweetie, are you awake?" Mother's whisper floats in from the doorway. I sit up tiredly. "I know you probably want some decent sleep after the last couple days, but I came to talk to you."

I can only see her shadow. Her head turns toward Cynthia, checking if the little one is awake. She isn't.

"In the middle of the night?" I whisper back.

"Call me crazy, but I was worried about you."

"Me?"

"Of course! Now, Alice, you will be honest with me, won't you?"

Mother pulls the pin out of the wall above the window and catches the blanket that covered it. Moonlight shines through, and I can see her more clearly.

Her words put me on edge.

"I am always honest with you…" I say.

She smiles thoughtfully as she sits on the edge of my mattress. "You feel things strongly, yes? And sometimes, you see things."

By 'things' I know she means the future. I nod.

"And these things, they… they come true, more often than not, correct? So, why do you think you see these things? Is your imagination, Alice?"

"No!" I whisper desperately. "No, Mother, I see them. I know them. And I can't explain it, because I don't understand it. I just do!"

"Shh, shh," she hushes me, calms me. "I know, Alice. I know. I also know it has been years since you were last troubled by these things you feel. I am only concerned there is something you are not telling me because you fear of my reaction. If there is anything you want to tell me, Alice, I will listen, and I will love you no less."

A breath I didn't know I was holding is let out. I expected a stern voice and counseling on how to be good and instead Mother surprises me by giving me the option to be myself with no consequences. Suddenly, I fling myself at her, hugging her, burying my face into her neck, and I say, "Thank you."

She laughs lightly, evidently confused. "Whatever for, my flower?"

"For believing me. For trusting me. For staying. I did not ask to be like this and everybody is so different about it and… I know I act strong, but I don't know how I would cope without you."

"Alice, you have never given a thought to the negative things people have said about you over the years your entire life – do not let Bert and Louisa or Mary Beth or that boy thwart your sunshine; and you have _a lot _of sunshine."

I want to smile, but I don't.

"I just…" I start, and then stop, unsure. Since we're being honest, I think, I might as well ask the question that's been on my mind for months, if not years. Because everything about me has always been questioned as dark and lately I've been starting to believe it.

"What plagues you, dear?" Mother gently asks.

"Why… Why _do_ I see these things? Is it…the Devil?"

Mother surprises me by laughing. "I have never heard of anybody possessed by the Devil going out of their way to save others' lives and protect their wellbeing. Have you?"

After a moment, I laugh, too. That does sound rather ridiculous.

Mother continues, "The way people insist that everything must be negative in this world… It drives me mad! You are a gifted child. The Devil has not possessed you; but the Lord. He has a plan for you. One day, Mary Alice – you'll see – you will be a part of something magnificent. People will respect you, be grateful to have you, love you."

It all sounds awfully nice, but… "Still, how can you know for sure?"

"My dear, I do not have to have your gift to know your future." Looking down at me, her smile widens. "And let me not forget the number of parties you will be invited to, no doubt, hmm?"

I stare at the woman in front of me, who I undeniably resemble – I can be her exact image in twenty or so years – and as I see her smiling determinedly at me, confident in her predicting words about the gift that has only led me from trouble to more trouble… I decide, once and for all, to believe her. A mother _is_ always right, they say. And my mother knows me best. Sometimes even better than I think I know myself. But now, I think, she's helped me see:

I am no devil.

I am no demon.

And I will not stop being me just because I am different. I do good things for people, and if they do not want to accept my help at least I can rest easy knowing I tried.

I smile.

"Parties?" I repeat, growing excitement obvious in the way I ask. Mother winks, and I figure: Why stop at parties? "Will I find true love, too? Like in the stories?" I feel like I am Cynthia's age asking, but I can't help myself all the same.

Mother claps her hands against her lap. "Oh, yes! I can even picture exactly how he will be. He will be perfect for you: intelligent, strong, dependable, able to keep up with you while still being calm – the rain to your sunshine. That's the only way to make rainbows, by the way, and it keeps you grounded, because I know how you get sometimes." I laugh. "And of course he must be romantic; gentle, but firm; entertaining, but mature; trustworthy… Yes, he must be honest with you." A look crosses her face that I can only describe as wistful, though I can't place the origin of it.

When she doesn't go on, I add, "And he'll be so, _so_ handsome!"

Mother grins again, focusing back on me. "Naturally. Let's see… A nice sculpted frame, smooth, chiseled jaw, deep-set eyes, full lips, dark hair—"

I shake my head. "Light hair."

She raises an eyebrow at me. I can only think about Luther Hayes and the way he sweeps his fingers through his dark brown hair. It makes me sick. Light hair is undeniably the better preference here, and I tell her so.

"All right_, light hair_. And…" Mother waits for me to finish the product of our imagination. I have to think a moment, wanting to get it just right.

"A gorgeous smile," I decide. "I will be making him smile a lot, you see, so it only seems fair."

Mother whisper-laughs.

"I believe that you will," she says, and we giggle together, the sound of music: light, sweet, in harmony, beautiful to the ears. We stay lying on my bed for the next hour, talking and laughing, enjoying the other's company, able to ignore our exhaustion and our worries, and it makes me hopeful. Mother has that effect on me, which brings on a sense of security.

No matter what happens to me in my life, I will always be safe with my mother.

OoOoOoO


End file.
